The Most Wuthering Heights Day Ever: Storybrooke
by darcyfarrow
Summary: In a year of rampant personal and impersonal attacks, both verbal and physical, several thousand people around the world took time out to dance. Belle decides to join them and in so doing, brings a little healing to Storybrooke.


**This story is based on an actual worldwide flash-mob event that took place on July 16, 2016. The Most Wuthering Heights Day Ever, held in 21 cities in 11 countries, brought together women, men and children for just a few minutes to recreate the dance routine performed by Kate Bush in the American release version of the video for her 1978 hit "Wuthering Heights." Both this video, known to fans as "the red dress version," and a different version that was released in the UK, are widely available on Youtube, as are videos of the Most Wuthering Heights Day Ever events held in Berlin, Atlanta, Montreal, Melbourne, and a whole lot of other places. Participants were asked to wear red dresses and "bring unadulterated glee!" In many cases, these events also served as fundraisers for charities such as battered women's shelters.**

 **You have to see the event to understand what it was, and once you do, you'll understand why it was. The one in Perth was especially well choreographed: you can see it on Youtube at** **j5haZoRsX0I.**

" _ **This incredibly strong female voice wasn't trying to seduce anyone; it was really and truly in her own creative power. . . .Once in a while you have to do something nutty and gleeful and something that's kind and good and puts energy back into you and puts energy back into the city."—Samantha Wareing, organizer of the Most Wuthering Heights Day Ever in Berlin, July 16, 2016; from Tim Doldissen's "Berlin's Most Wuthering Heights Day" video on Youtube. Search for MuqULrjFD4.**_

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It was an email from her online friends in the Jane Austen Society that started the whole thing. Embedded in the email was a link to a music video, along with an invitation so strange it surely must be a hoax, Belle thought (though the thought of one Austenaphile pranking another was unimaginable). But something about the video delighted her, so she watched it again, and then something about it touched her, so she watched it again, and then something about it reached into the little girl sleeping in her soul, and before long, she was captured. A little more exploring online, then a lot more exploring, and Belle was hooked, body, heart and imagination. She wanted in on this. She made a phone call, first to Ruby, because Ruby was always up for an adventure—and besides, red was her signature color. Ruby called Dorothy and Dorothy called Rapunzel and within a half-day, a phone-and-text tree was formed, and by mid-morning the next day twenty women and girls had signed onto what Belle was calling The Red Project, and by June 1, sewing machines all around town were whirring and both the grocery and Dark Star Pharmacy were sold out of red dye. The library had set up a display on dress making and natural dyes.

And on June 16 at 6pm, twenty-two women and girls, including the sheriff and her mother, climbed into their cars, SUVs, pickup trucks, motorcycles and bicycles and left town. Three hours later, when they returned to their families, their pets, their jobs and their businesses, they were sweaty, dusty, tired and chattering animatedly with one another, smiling smiles they'd long since forgotten they possessed, smiles of rejuvenation, smiles of unfettered joy.

The men in their lives, observing this renewal, raised puzzled eyebrows but didn't complain, not even when The Red Project encroached upon their evenings again and again. Bewildering though it was, and inconvenient, certainly, how could they grumble when their women returned apple-cheeked and twinkling-eyed? Of course there were questions—well, one question, really: What in the gods' names are you _doing_? But the ladies would only shrug and murmur something about "getting a breath of fresh air and a little exercise" or "spending some quality girl time."

On June 17 at 6pm, thirty-one women and girls, from seven-year-old Sarah Shoemaker to sixty-seven-year-old Eugenie Lucas, went into the woods.

Some of the men ignored the strange phenomena. Some of them consulted each other in concern: should a stop be put to it? Whatever it was, it wasn't normal, not even for Storybrooke. Was this some new enchantment, a reverse Shattered Sight spell? Some sort of scheme perpetrated by the Imp? A few of the men, including Leroy and Killian, attempted to investigate, but when they followed the women, somehow they lost the trail when they entered the West Woods. After a soft chastising from Astrid—"Don't take this away from us by spoiling it"—and a snarl from Emma—"What, you're spying on me now? Don't even go there, Hook, or I swear there'll be no more shipboard candlelight dinners"—the nosier of the men decided to take a wait and see approach. Besides, the women were just so _happy_ these days.

On June 18 at 6pm, thirty-nine women and girls went into the woods, including the seven nuns from the convent.

"Be patient," the women said. "You'll find out soon enough."

On June 19, sixty women and girls went into the woods, including the mayor, her executive assistant and nine members of the Chamber of Commerce.

Archie advised, "Don't interfere. Can't you see what this is doing for them, for Storybrooke?" And so it was: women who'd barely acknowledged each other's existence now were greeting each other on the streets, arranging playdates for their kids, seeking each other's advice about their careers and their loves, discovering things to like and admire in each other. There was even rumor of a developing political/charitable alliance between Regina, Snow and Blue to tackle the unemployment problem.

And so it went, day after day, breaking only for a thunderstorm, and day after day, the numbers grew.

"Next week," the women promised their families and friends.

And then, finally, on July 15: "Tomorrow, at 10 a.m., in City Park. Admission is five dollars per spectator. All proceeds go to the library."

"So it's a fundraiser!" The men were reassured. Raising money for charity was something that made sense—and a fundraising event was something short-term. After tomorrow, the town would return to normal.

Their bewilderment returned, however, when they packed up the kids and their five dollar bills and arrived at the park. There was no ticket booth; Regina and Emma passed through the crowd, collecting the money (and applying a little force to those who resisted). There was a sound system, but no stage and no chairs. The men had to sit on the grass, holding their smaller children on their laps to keep them from dashing off to the playground.

As the clock in the library tower clicked over to 10, Belle's voice came over the sound system: "Today Storybrooke joins the world! Gentlemen, as we speak, in twenty-one cities and villages across the world, thousands of women—and a few men—are coming together in flash mobs, all to dance to one single song. We dance in celebration of the indomitable female spirit. We dance in tribute to everlasting love. We've come together to dance so that for a few minutes, we can lay aside our differences and simply have fun. No curses, no sleeping spells, no revenge plots, no manipulations, no incriminations, no judgment. Just dancing!"

Music poured from speakers placed in each corner of the park—though there was no sight of a turntable or CD player. In a puff of purple, the women of Storybrooke appeared and began to sway and spin in unison and in time to the music. Except for differences in height, it was difficult to tell the dancers apart, because all were dressed in identical red chiffon wrap dresses with pixie hemlines and black sashes at the waist. Long auburn wigs with a red rose affixed over the left ear removed the possibility of identifying the dancer by hair color.

A burst of laughter that mixed surprise with a bit of derision cut through the music, but the women danced as if they could hear nothing but the song and could see nothing but the generous smiles of their fellow dancers. Unselfconscious, the women danced, unpolished and amateurish, but cocooned and carried, made safe and at the same time made free by the music.

And something changed in the men. Whether it was the unadulterated joy with which the women danced, or the singer's voice, so innocent and feminine, in a moment their laughter lost its edge and they, like the women, were laughing in joy, and some found themselves swaying along to the music.

For four minutes, no one in Storybrooke was a hero or a villain.

Then it was over. The women vanished in faint smoke, and when they reappeared, the wigs were gone and they were dressed in their street clothes and work uniforms. All that remained of the dance were the red roses in their hair.

And the smiles that took days to fade away.


End file.
